


Unfortunate Apology - Director's Cut

by GizmoTrinket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bisexual John Watson, Blow Jobs, Bottom John Watson, Cake, First Time, Fluff and Humor, For Science!, Funny, Idiots in Love, John's Birthday, M/M, Mentions of Masturbation, Top Sherlock, set sometime before THoB
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-27 00:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16692043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GizmoTrinket/pseuds/GizmoTrinket
Summary: It's John's birthday and Sherlock's been hiding after the latest experiment went horribly wrong. Sherlock decides to test the water by leaving a present at the flat...





	1. Happy Birthday, John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-write of my fic [Unfortunate Apology](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6683794/chapters/15285439) which was a fantastic idea I didn't have the skill to complete properly. After two years of writing and the help of my beta @AelishLuna on Twitter I finally did the work justice. 
> 
> Enjoy
> 
> (P.S. Click on the text to see the cake.)

“I’m going to kill him,” John seethed, voice sharp like steel. He hadn’t decided how yet, but he would make it painful. He hadn’t been this angry  _ ever _ .

Harry laughed as if it was a joke. “C’mon, John! That was, like, the best thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” The fact that she was drunk was the only reason John wasn’t going to say anything to correct her.

The amount of laughter in response to the comment from the other party guests was completely unacceptable.

John felt his face heat. He needed something... To do something... To go somewhere…. A walk. He needed a walk.

“Sod this! I’m going to go kill him.” John grabbed his jacket off the hook but Greg caught his arm before he could even get it on.

“John, you don’t know where he is.”

Of course, he didn’t! He never did! Sherlock never told him anything! It’s why he was in this ridiculous situation in the first place!

Greg handed him a glass of the good stuff as if John hadn’t had enough alcohol and kept being reasonable and John couldn’t very well tell him to sod off too. He didn’t get to do stuff like that. He wasn’t Sherlock Holmes.

After a few drinks, John wished Sherlock was home. Surely, Sherlock would have done something unspeakable by now and cleared everyone out.

People turned away from John as Greg rambled about his first case with Sherlock and they started eating. Another glass and another horror story and most of the cake was gone.

John finished his glass and looked for his plate.

“So? Tell us the story!” Murray shouted, pushing a plate of cake,  _ that  _ cake, to him. John decided he was never going to speak to him again when he realized there were only two pieces of cake left—both from Sherlock’s cake, of course, not Mrs Hudson’s.

“Yeah, tell us!” chorused several of John’s so-called friends.

Oh, God. John could tell them the truth. It was horrible and embarrassing and stupid and just… so…  _ Sherlock... _ that it was painful. Or, he could say no and have them all assume the worst.

_ The worst? _ John wondered.  _ Would it really be that bad? _

Since he’d spared what little time he had on that thought instead of coming up with a reasonable explanation—which, considering the situation, could have taken John years and still have had holes like swiss cheese—he blurted out, “It’s not like that! You know how he is,” he looked at Mrs Hudson beseechingly, “with all the experiments all over the flat…”

Someone let out a whistle and all the guests laughed.

Mrs Hudson said, “Oh, dear, really now.” And she didn’t look near as scandalized as she should have.

“Not like that!” John yelled.

Because it wasn’t.

“Sherlock is an idiot.”

Only he wasn’t.

“There was no sex involved.”

Unless masturbation counted.

“Don’t even think it.”

Because John  _ was _ thinking it when the non-sex specimen was… deposited. And  _ no one _ would ever know that.  _ Ever. _ Because Sherlock wasn’t like that. He didn’t feel those things. And Sherlock knew. He had to know. He knew everything, saw everything. He had to have seen how John’s eyes lingered and why.

There was a chorus of boos and hisses.

“How’d—” a soon-to-be ex-friend cut off the sentence at John’s glare and changed his words, “— _ it— _ get… you know. Where’d it come from, then?”

“Oh, no! I don’t need to hear this,” Mrs Hudson said.

John didn’t know how she’d managed to save him and throw him under the bus at the same time.

“I really,  _ really, _ don’t want to know,” John said. He had his suspicions, and the conversation and search had pretty much confirmed them. Still, it was never stated outright.

_ “‘Whose  _ was it?’ Is the real question!” screamed a shrill voice.

John decided there and then he was never speaking to his sister again. He didn’t have a sister. He was an only child.

“Yeah!” everyone loudly agreed.

“Out.” John’s voice was low and didn’t waver. He was done. Just, done.

All the blokes from Afghanistan practically sprinted down the stairs. Everyone else went quiet.

John raised his arm and pointed at the door. “Out,” he stated in a dangerously low tenor.

Harry tried to hunch down and sneak out, hiding behind Greg as he escorted Molly and Mrs Hudson away from John’s ire.

“Not you, Harry.”

Once the room emptied John glared at his sister.

Harry winced as if the look was causing her physical pain. “Sorry, Johnny.”

“You will be,” John promised.

He could make her life miserable. He had a million first-hand experiences that would put any prank show to shame.

Because living with Sherlock was kind of like living in Hell. You open the microwave and there’s a human kidney that was abandoned when he got distracted last night. You open the fridge and there’s a human head on a plate, a dish doing absolutely nothing to stop the blood from dripping onto the lettuce in the crisper—or the package of thumbs beside it.

There are a lot of random explosions at various times of the day and night. There’s a lot of him ordering you to do anything he can’t be bothered with, like taking his mobile out of the pocket of his jacket _while he’s_ _wearing it._ You’ll come home and there’ll be singe marks on the counter or gouges in the table or small appliances will be dripping puddles to the floor while smoke lingers in the air.

You’ll be walking down the street and a black car will pull up and women who are probably writing novels on their blackberries will basically abduct you because your flatmate’s big brother wants something (and sometimes he’ll never get around to actually telling you what that is).

Sometimes, you’ll take a sip of juice and spew it across the floor because he’s experimented on it and forgotten to label it as per the complicated set of rules agreed upon the first time this happened.

There’s a lot of shouting and whingeing and fighting and dramatic exits. There’s no such thing as personal space or privacy. You’ll do all the shopping and most of the cleaning and basically all the adulting because he’s a six-year-old boy in a body that sometimes looks twenty and other times thirty-five.

John could have thought of so many other things but the biggest problem he had with living with Sherlock was that he was… fit.

_ Really _ fit.

And John wasn’t gay. He wasn’t. Sure, he had a crush on David Bowie. And yes, his first wet dream had happened after watching the movie Labyrinth and had more to do with him than the teenage girl. That thing with James didn’t count since nothing happened.

It didn’t matter that the first time he met Sherlock he totally hit on him because John will never admit it. There’s just  _ something _ about him and John didn’t know what it was but he felt a deep-seated need to find out.

But, Sherlock’s not like that.

So, John reminded himself he’s not gay and that one guy in uni didn’t count either. Or the other. Certainly not the third. Everyone experimented in uni, right? He wasn’t lying, not really. And no matter how many times he said it people wouldn’t listen. And why would they? The way John caught himself looking at Sherlock as he did something brilliant was embarrassing and if he caught himself eye-fucking him, well, it had to be painful for everyone else. Especially when he’s just there, walking around in nothing but a sheet or in a shirt so tight John swore the buttons had some sort of spell on them to not just go popping off.

With those cheekbones and curls and neck and fingers and tallness and voice and he just peered over your shoulder and you could just turn your head and latch onto his neck or ear and you just breathe in and…

“Fuck.”

Harry stared at John and John realized he had no idea how long he’d been gone or if she could see the problem in his trousers.

He guessed she could by the expression on her face.

“Right,” John said. Back to why he was down that train of thought to begin with: punishing Harry.

Sherlock had some truly disgusting things fermenting in the fridge and Mrs Hudson wasn’t a housekeeper even though she acted like it on occasion. The loo hadn’t been scrubbed since that thing with the snails.

“I really am sorry,” she squeaked in the smallest voice John had ever managed to wring from her.

“No,” John said. There was no excuse. Because Harry  _ knew _ . She  _ knew _ John was completely head over heels in love with him from that wink in the lab and that it got worse every  _ fucking _ day (hour, minute, second). And that John was rejected soundly and that there was no point to ever trying again because Sherlock wasn’t like that.

_ “He could just not be into you, you know,” Harry had said. “You’ve been hit with the work line by plenty of women.” _

_ No,  _ John told the memory,  _ If the most observant man I’d ever met couldn’t see what literally everyone else did then I’ll eat the next batch of thumbs. _

Sherlock saw and he wasn’t interested and John wasn’t going to do something stupid and risk the friendship for nothing.

Harry staggered over and hugged her brother.

“Just…” John realized all the anger was gone. It had been replaced with heartache. With a sigh, he said, “Just go, Harry.”

She bit her lip while she looked him over before nodding and walking away.

John went upstairs and fell on his bed. He was exhausted and it was only seven o’clock.

He wished Sherlock was home.

While he rubbed his sternum he realized that people probably thought he had no reason to stay. That everyone was thinking that nothing could possibly be worth all that… Sherlock-ing day in and day out.

It was.

Because living with Sherlock was kind of like being in Heaven. The colours were brighter. The city was more alive. People were interesting. The impossible happened on many days and on the others the most mundane things were exciting.

When John had a nightmare he woke to violin music and knew that Sherlock knew and was playing for him.

Sherlock could be such a dick sometimes but he almost never meant to be (assuming you weren’t one first). Half the time he honestly thought he was complimenting or helping!

Cabs appeared out of thin air at three am in the middle of nowhere.

ASBOs randomly disappeared.

Sherlock had taken one look at John and determined how to fix his limp. Then, the mad bastard went and did it.

Life was running down alleyways after a Belstaff-wearing idiot who was chasing a murderer without a single thought to safety or traffic.

Conversations were never boring. He knew everything about such peculiar things and absolutely nothing about what John considered common knowledge.

He listened when it was important. John had had a long discussion about timing for celebrating a fantastic murder with him. Now, every time he was confused by someone’s reaction to something he said or did he turned to John with the most helpless look on his face. John only had to say one word from one of those conversations and he’d understand.

He trusted John. John trusted him.

And his days were filled with friendship and excitement and laughter. Before Sherlock John couldn’t remember the last time he laughed and he was certain he had been a child the last time he giggled.

He was happy.

Happy and accepted. He didn’t have to play a part. He didn’t have to act mature or hide his temper or do anything he didn’t want to do. He wanted to pay the bills (so long as Sherlock provided the cash) and stock the fridge and remind him to eat.

John knew Sherlock was the most amazing person he’d ever met and no one could take his place.

When they were together John felt alive in a way he didn’t think was possible.

John crawled under the covers and hid his face. Eventually, he felt ridiculous and sighed. He flung the sheets back and a wave fresh air hit his face. He looked over to the book on his nightstand.

Right next to it was the box of tissues he’d bought after giving up the idea of ever having a girlfriend. Which reminded him why he was sitting alone in his bed, sulking on his birthday.

“I’m going to kill him.”

\---- Earlier This Week----

Sherlock was doing another experiment. John asked about the content because it was the polite thing to do (and, sometimes, he’d actually explain and John would actually understand and he’d get to help), and Sherlock responded with the grunt that meant he was focused and that it was over John’s head but that John existed at present.

John acknowledged his grunt with an, “Ah,” that meant he understood what the grunt meant and went to start the kettle.

And, just when John was reaching for the biscuits, the kettle started spewing black smoke and his eyes started watering. He coughed and sputtered and tried to see and Sherlock breezed past and unplugged the kettle and started opening windows whilst berating John for ruining an experiment.

John ignored him because he already had the argument won and once he could breathe and see he’d remind Sherlock about the kettle. They had a rule about the kettle. The rule was simple and easy to understand. No experiments in the kettle. The kettle was for water. Water for making tea. That’s it. Nothing else. Sherlock knew this rule. He knew that John knew he knew the rule.

John just needed to catch Sherlock before he tried to escape or got worked into a sulk about his experiment in order to avoid the scolding.

John saw a pile of tissues on the table and grabbed one to wipe his eyes.

Sherlock had his back turned so he couldn’t try to stop John. John knew he was an idiot as soon as he’d done the first swipe. The tissues were on the table. They were not new, in a box. They were clearly ready for use or had been recently used in an experiment.

So, when the pain hit, John cursed, but not at Sherlock.

“What the hell chemical did I just put in my eye?” John wondered if he was going to go blind while he demanded Sherlock tell him what to do.

“Just rinse your eye thoroughly with water,” followed by, “For god sakes, John, you’re not going to go blind!” and variations of those sentiments until John was in less pain.

Once John had calmed down he demanded to know what he’d stuck in his eye and what the permanent effects would be.

“There’ll be no lasting damage. Just irritation until all of the sample is flushed out. I would know, I’ve personally had the experience and my vision is perfect.” And he wouldn’t say another word on the subject.

After trying to get the information from him several different ways, many of which involving threats, John picked up a tissue to see if he could identify the substance.

He could.

John looked up just in time to see Sherlock fleeing the flat at top speed. He tried to catch him but those damn long legs kept him out of reach. And once the front door was closed he was gone.

Wondering where the tissue had come from, John went upstairs to look in the bin next to his bed.

It was empty.

It shouldn’t have been empty.

John was relieved, then stunned, then horrified, then furious.

He was happy Sherlock was gone because he really didn’t want to punch him again. He had felt guilty about that mark on the genius idiot’s cheekbone when they were done with that one case. He was pretty sure there’d be no guilt this time.

\----Earlier Today----

John had gotten dressed while playing out scenarios of what would happen if Sherlock decided to show up for the party. Most of the anger had subsided and John missed him—but he also knew him and was worried he’d bring the incident up in front of the guests.

Astoundingly, he’d accomplished that without ever showing his face.

Apparently, Sherlock had had an idea for an apology and had forgotten about the change in venue for the party, but not the fact that it was John’s birthday. John would have laughed and grumbled and complained and explained just how wrong the method of apology was, had he found it first.

But, he hadn’t. Harry had found it. And she was already a bit squiffy and thought it was the most amazing thing she’d ever seen in her life. Which, to be fair, it probably was.

Unfortunately, all the other guests heard her ridiculously loud exclamation of delight and decided they too needed to see what was in the box. The reactions were enough to pique John’s interest and pull him away from getting plates for the lovely cake Mrs Hudson had made.

“What the fuck is  _ that?!” _ If it had been a contest in volume John would have won.

The situation had been salvageable at that point. His deep scarlet blush could have been attributed to the sheer absurdity of the sentiment written in frosting.

It was when Harry read the note that Sherlock had left on the box that it all went tits up.

**_John,_ **

**_Happy birthday._ **

**_Text me when I can come home and you won’t kill me._ **

**_-SH_ **

John had felt like his eyes were going to pop out of his head and his mouth was hanging open and he was frozen for so long that guests were (after several flashes of mobile phone cameras) cutting up the apology to eat it.

When John could move again, he groaned, burying his burning face in his hands, and said, “God, Sherlock.  _ That’s _ how you apologize?” aloud, instead of in his head.

It was, quite possibly, the absolute worst thing he could have said and would probably be the height of gossip told about his party.

An incredible feat, considering it involved a cake featuring the words:

[ **SORRY I GOT SEMEN IN YOUR EYE** ](http://lookartthat.tumblr.com/post/142932604953/otpprompts-imagine-person-a-giving-this-to)


	2. A Very Happy Birthday

\----Now----

John sighed. With the guests gone, the cake gone (the wankers didn’t save a slice of Mrs Hudson’s. No, they decided he should have a slice of the other one), and Sherlock gone, John was alone on his birthday and he didn’t like it. He could go downstairs and open gifts, but it would be more fun to have Sherlock deduce them all before they were opened. It’d be interesting to see if he could beat his average from Christmas without the advantage of seeing the guests when they brought the gifts.

He took out his phone and sent the following message:

**Come home, idiot**

A ping echoed in the sparsely furnished room.

**Aren’t you at your party? -SH**

**No, my party ended abruptly when my sister found your cake.**

Two pings almost simultaneously.

**The venue change. -SH**

**I forgot. -SH**

**I noticed**

**Will you kill me? -SH**

**Probably**

Deciding not to let him sweat too long, he typed out:

**But not today**

Then John recognized a familiar footfall pattern coming up the stairs. Sherlock was taking them two at a time and had, as usual, adjusted to avoid both squeaky steps. Moving quickly - he had to be excited. How had he gotten here so fast? Was he sitting out on the stoop?

“John?” Sherlock called into the empty kitchen.

John wondered how long it’d take him to puzzle out where he was. It His usual average was seven seconds. John attributed that high number (given Sherlock’s deductive skills) to Sherlock’s delay in deciding whether he actually needed John for whatever he was up to.

Sounds pattered about downstairs and John could practically see Sherlock’s manic movements. “John?”

Interesting. It’d been ten seconds already.

Sherlock’s feet thundered down the stairs. “Mrs Hudson!”

John listened to him barge into her flat and rolled his eyes. They’d all had the knocking discussion with him before, both separately and together, but when he was excited he just couldn’t help himself.

“Where’s John?”

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

“Mrs Hudson?”

God, but he could be loud. Other times he was like a cat. He’d snuck up behind John and startled him enough times that John had threatened to make him wear a bell.

“Mrs Hudson!”

Greg must have taken her and Molly out for the evening. John made a mental note to thank him.

More stomps, a door closing, and he was back on the first floor. After that John couldn’t hear anything. Sherlock had either gone into cat mode or he wasn’t moving.

“John?” The voice came from the landing outside their living room.

John realized Sherlock was scared to come up to his room. Interesting. He hadn’t thought it possible for the man to understand the idea of boundaries, let alone respect any.

Three minutes, two seconds. Well, he’d totally shot his average to hell. John wondered if Sherlock had any inkling that he tested him as well. (John had proof Sherlock was experimenting on him because he’d left the file up on John’s own laptop the last time he went five days without sleep and literally passed out - fell right off his chair and scared the hell out of John. The file was entitled:  **John Experiments.** All the columns and rows were filled with gibberish except those that were clearly time notations. When Sherlock was coherent again he assured John that none of them were harmful and were simply measures of reflexes and mental acuity. John had had to wait sixteen hours and seven minutes while Sherlock slept for his answer. Two full minutes shy of a new record. He pretended to be angry anyway.)

John’s mobile gave up the game by pinging a new text message. John tried to smother the sound, but it was too late.

**Where are you? -SH**

Sherlock thundered up the stairs.

Four minutes, three seconds. John noted it on the blank page in the back of the paperback he’d been “reading” since he moved in and pushed it aside right as the door opened.

“John,” Sherlock said. He stood as if he were facing a firing squad and was dying for a noble cause.

John glared at him.

He huffed and looked down. “Sorry.”

“I’m not even going to ask,” John said, to stem any attempts at explanation. “But, I will say, writing on a cake shouldn’t include anything sexual.”

Sherlock’s head popped up so quickly John winced in sympathy for his neck.

“Please tell me you wrote that yourself and…” John didn’t bother finishing his question because the answer was written all over Sherlock’s face: partial disgust that John thought something so sloppy came from him and partial revulsion at the memory of the recalcitrant employee forced to write...  _ that _ .

“Yes, the bakery was not… pleasant when I went to pick up the order,” he pouted. “They didn’t say anything when I handed them the order form!”

_ Cue huffy eye-roll… _ John waited and…  _ Yep, there it is. _ John stifled a chuckle.

He couldn’t continue to do so as Sherlock described his fight with the bakery over the words. Sherlock’s hands waved as he paced. When he got to the point where he described shouting the phrase at the baker from the front of a long queue, John laughed so hard tears came to his eyes. Sherlock flopped down on the bed as John continued laughing. He started laughing too when John started wheezing, whether at John or because he thought the situation was funny, as well, John didn’t know. The bed shook as they laughed together.

Sherlock’s story came to an end and suddenly, there they were, two grown men, flushed from laughing, eyes bright, faces mere centimetres from each other, together on a bed only really big enough for one.

John licked his lips, just like he did every other time they ended up like this. But, instead of standing up or moving away like he usually did, Sherlock gasped, a small breath, not even a sound, and followed the movement with his eyes. John looked down to see Sherlock’s parted lips before forcing himself to meet his eyes again.

They were wide and dark. Far too dilated for the light of the room. John froze, not even daring to breathe.

And waited.

Sherlock blinked first. But he didn’t move away. He moved in, toward John.

John held still until Sherlock dipped his head, his eyes hooded, and he deliberately licked his own lips.

There was only a small gap between them. John could feel Sherlock’s exhalations on his lips. He didn’t move away; he just sat there, mere centimetres away from John, his head tilted and lips parted.

John closed the distance and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. His heart skipped a beat and he held his breath.

His stomach was full of butterflies. God, he’d wanted this for so long.  _ So _ long. Sherlock’s lips were smooth and John couldn’t feel his breath anymore. Sherlock was stunned. John waited, praying that this was ok, that he hadn’t crossed a line.

“Mmmfh,” Sherlock groaned. He went completely lax on the exhalation before moaning again, deeper this time and surging forward.

“Mmuh!” John’s heart leapt into overdrive and his entire body got hot and he felt rather dizzy as he was pushed back into the mattress. He tried to breathe but he couldn’t. Sherlock was pressing into him, his hands everywhere. John had his jumper and shirt rucked up and his belt undone and Sherlock’s lips hadn’t left his.

When John broke away in an attempt to get some oxygen, Sherlock disappeared.

Disoriented, John panted and looked around frantically. When he saw Sherlock, half across the room already, pacing angrily and muttering to himself, John’s chest locked.

“Sherlock?” The word took the last of John’s breath.

“I… I…” Sherlock couldn’t find the words. He groaned as he pulled on his hair and spun on his heel.

_ Oh, no. _ John should have expected this. He knew Sherlock wasn’t like this. He didn’t feel things like this. He had only kissed John out of some misplaced deduction that he felt he had to. Of course, he had. The cake, the semen, being the subject of the fantasy that resulted in this catastrophe...

John opened his mouth, not quite sure what was going to come out of it. He just knew he had to tell Sherlock that it was okay, that they didn’t have to do anything, that he understood and it was fine. It was all fine.

At that moment Sherlock turned back around, faced John with a stiff back and clenched fists and said, “You’re not gay.”

John closed his mouth and frowned in confusion.

“You’re ‘ _ not gay,’ _ ” Sherlock pointed a finger at John accusingly.

John realized he was waiting for an answer.

“No,” John said. “I’m not.”

“You never said that you were straight.”

“Right,” John agreed.

Sherlock waited, finger stabbing at him from across the room.

“I’m not,” John clarified.

This caused Sherlock to lose it completely. He threw his hands into the air and roared in frustration.

“All this time! All this time we could have been together. But, nooooooooo… I was sure I was reading it wrong. You weren’t hitting on me at Angelo’s! You weren’t gay! It was all in my head!”

Before John could argue, Sherlock walked up to him and jabbed him in the chest with his finger.

“You made me think I was going crazy! All this time. All this time, John! Why?”

“Well—”

“Why?! Is it me? You said it was fine. That it was all fine. That you didn’t mind that I was gay, but you weren’t actually interested in me.”

“What?” John was thrown for a loop. Sherlock was actually gay?

Sherlock was still, breathing heavily in John’s face. Everything about him was wild, his hair, his eyes, his dishevelled clothing. His finger pushed a bruise into John’s sternum.

“I thought you were asexual,” John said.

The words clicked in Sherlock’s head and he made his deduction face, the face that he always made when all the clues clicked together and the picture was clear. His mouth made a little o and he gasped.

And, fuck, that was the exact expression that John had been thinking of when he’d come into that tissue.

John wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s waist and yanked, causing them both to topple back onto the bed. Sherlock’s body pressed into John’s. 

“Ooph,” Sherlock blinked rapidly, clearly trying to process the change of position.

John didn’t want Sherlock’s brain to come back online. He wanted to make it so Sherlock wouldn’t—no,  _ couldn’t _ —think again. For at least the next hour or so.

“Ambitious of you,” Sherlock said, voice deep and the corner of his mouth ticked up in a wicked smile.

“Shut up,” John said, ignoring the fact that Sherlock had just correctly deduced John’s thoughts, and kissed him deeply.

Their tongues twisted between gasps for air as they tried to get properly on the bed, get their clothing off, and keep their mouths together as they did so.

“Sod it,” John growled, and pulled away, yanking his jumper, shirt and vest over his head.

Sherlock was fighting with a button on his cuff and with the zip of his trousers at the same time. He gawped at John, even though he’d seen him naked plenty of times. (Though, admittedly, not in this context.)

With widened eyes, he watched as John slowly undid his button and lowered his zip.

John palmed himself through his pants, teasing both himself and Sherlock. His whole body felt hot and cold at the same time. He felt his hairline prickle and his breath picked up when Sherlock licked his lips. He tried to stay in control of the situation. He wanted Sherlock at his mercy. To writhe beneath him incoherently.

But Sherlock was regaining control. He stopped trying to do everything at once and, while John rubbed his own erection, Sherlock undid one cuff and then the other.

John’s hand slowed and then stopped as Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt. Sherlock’s movements were graceful and precise and he held John’s gaze with hooded eyes.

To try to regain some semblance of control, John looked away when Sherlock finished the last button and began to remove his shoes and socks.

When he looked back up, Sherlock was waiting. He slowly removed his shirt, exposing one shoulder and then the other. His skin was pale and his chest and arms were well muscled despite how thin he was.

John’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Sherlock Holmes, the source of all John’s recent masturbatory fantasies was now in bed with him. Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh. Sherlock Holmes, here in front of him. Sherlock, half naked. Sherlock.

Sherlock dropped his shirt to the floor and his expression became mischievous.

“John,” he purred.

All of Sherlock’s brainpower was laser-focused on John. There was no room for anything else. When John realized this he felt himself break out in goosebumps. There was no case to distract Sherlock and no boredom to sulk about.

There was only John.

Sherlock moved lithely, almost prowled over to John and kissed him. His large hand cradled the back of John’s head and held him still. The other hand wrapped around John’s lower back, pulling their bodies together.

John melted.

Sherlock pushed him back onto his bed. His hand slid around John’s body, up his ribs, across his chest, pausing at his nipple. When John jumped he moved on, lifting a finger to trace patterns on John’s scar. John stiffened but Sherlock didn’t stop.

“Sher,” John said. He was uncomfortable. He knew Sherlock liked scars and, if anything, it made John more attractive to him but John hated it. That scar had cost him everything; his life and his family was in Afghanistan. He was closer to his unit than to his nuclear family. God, how long had it been since he had talked to Harry?

“Stop,” Sherlock said, shaking John out of his thoughts.

“What?” John asked. He blushed, seeing Sherlock lying between his legs, resting his chin on his hand and that hand on John’s stomach. John thought he could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat on his softening cock. 

“Thinking,” Sherlock clarified.

“I wasn’t…” John trailed off, knowing that lying was useless.

Sherlock still had a finger on his scar - John could feel him - but the signals he was getting were stronger when Sherlock brushed the mottled edges. Most of the nerves had been severed by the bullet and hadn’t returned.

“I like it,” Sherlock said, punctuating the words by circling the scar.

“You would,” John said, making a face. The sentiment was nice, but a bit morbid.

“No.” Sherlock scowled and lifted his head. He held John’s eyes as he said, “It brought you to me.”

And John couldn’t argue with that.

Sherlock continued to hold John’s gaze as he lifted his body and moved down. Sherlock’s mouth hovered over the slightly softened bulge in John’s pants.

“Oh,” John gasped.

Sherlock breathed out, and John could just barely feel the warmth on his cock.

John’s toes flexed as he fought to keep still - to not buck up or force Sherlock to give him more stimulation.

With a wicked smile, Sherlock stayed still and soon John’s pants were slightly damp from Sherlock’s heavy breathing.

John bit his lip. He was determined not to beg, but that resolve was weakening.

Right before John gave up and pleaded, Sherlock lowered his head and nuzzled John’s cock before carefully scraping his teeth around the head with only the thin layer of fabric for protection.

Dangerous. John suddenly felt dizzy as all the blood in his head rushed south.

Instead of escalating his ministrations or even continuing them Sherlock sat up and rocked back on his heels.

“Wha?” John blinked, wondering what had happened.

Sherlock undid the button to his trousers and lowered the zip slowly. And fuck, it didn’t even compare to when John did the same thing. John’s eyes followed the line of hair leading from Sherlock’s stomach to his cock. Sherlock pushed his pants down with his trousers and rubbed his dusky red erection.

John felt his mouth flood with saliva. Oh, god, he wanted that. He involuntarily let out a little high-pitched, nasally sound.

Little crinkles appeared around Sherlock’s eyes and he raised his head, looking down on John smugly.

“Off, off!” John commanded, shucking his trousers and pants in an ungainly wiggle.

Sherlock was faster and more graceful and John couldn’t care less because he was naked and Sherlock was naked and, oh, god, Sherlock was naked.

As Sherlock sauntered back to the bed John drank in the sight of him. His eating habits left him too thin, but the mass he did have was all muscle.

John decided he needed to touch it. All of it. Right now.

He yanked Sherlock down on top of him and took a kiss. It was rough and sloppy and they both let out a yelp of pain when their teeth collided. They shifted around and Sherlock straddled John’s thighs. Then he bucked his hips.

“Ah!” John exclaimed as their cocks dragged against each other.

Sherlock rolled his hips again, and again, and again. Then he started kissing John, groaning around John’s tongue.

John groped blindly for the nightstand and the tube of lube that was stashed in the top drawer. Sherlock didn’t let up and John abandoned the idea in favour of running his hands over Sherlock’s pale skin, up and down his back, his flanks, then down to squeeze Sherlock’s arse cheeks.

Sherlock let out a little disgruntled noise and sat back on John’s legs.

John let out a noise of protest. But he silenced himself when Sherlock’s mouth hovered over his cock. John’s mouth hung open and he mentally begged Sherlock to continue.

Once again, Sherlock hovered, just breathing on it.

This time John couldn’t keep still. He flexed, making his cock bob, and pushed his hips up. No matter how he moved Sherlock stayed above him, so close, yet so far.

“Sherlock,” John whined, his tone pleading. He was nearly desperate enough to beg outright.

Thankfully it didn’t come to that. Sherlock lowered his head, giving John’s cock a few licks before taking the head into his mouth and sucking, working the foreskin with his tongue.

“Mother of— Jesus Christ!” John shouted. He was so worked up he nearly climaxed.

Sherlock wrapped his hand around the base of John’s cock just in time.

“Aaah—urgh.” John took a deep breath and tried to calm down.

But Sherlock was right there, his mouth doing wonderful things.

John looked down to see those perfect pink cupid’s bow lips wrapped around his cock.

Oh, dear god. The “o” face.

Sherlock pulled back off John’s cock. “You’re too close.”

“Yeah,” John agreed. He wasn’t normally so worked up from a few licks and one suck. That was nothing! Even as a teenager it took him a bit to come.

But, Jesus, this was Sherlock. Sherlock was good at everything and he was  _ very _ good at giving head.

“Lube,” Sherlock said, clearly giving orders.

John rolled onto his side and took the tube out of the drawer.

“How do you want to…” he finished the sentence with a hand gesture.

In response, Sherlock took the lube and nudged John’s legs apart.

With a little shuffling Sherlock was kneeling between John’s thighs. He squeezed some lube onto his hand and set the bottle aside. John nabbed one of his pillows and stuck it under his hips.

Sherlock gave John a few strokes, keeping him hard. John shivered at the temperature of the lube. Sherlock caressed his way down until over his bollocks he was circling John’s hole. He kept his touch light but not teasing. When John relaxed, Sherlock carefully pushed his fingertip in, stopping when John tensed up.

John took a couple of deep breaths. He’d never done this before. He’d been on the giving and receiving end of a few hand jobs and blow jobs and he’d topped a man once, but he’d never bottomed. He felt a thrill of fear and he gasped.

Dangerous.

It wasn’t, not really (well, so long as he remembered to make Sherlock wear a condom when the time came), but his body didn’t know that. John’s heart raced and his mouth fell open.

Sherlock started pushing in again.

John could feel his finger, how it slid in, how it was cool and slippery with lube but warmed quickly. How he felt invaded, but not violated. Sherlock started stroking John’s cock with his other hand and John moaned.

Sherlock started moving the finger in and out. John was both relieved and disappointed Sherlock wasn’t going for his prostate. He was surprised to find that he could tell where Sherlock’s nail was compared to the pad of his finger. He was grateful that Sherlock kept his nails manicured. He felt his cock throb and he knew he was leaking pre-ejaculate.

When Sherlock’s finger slipped out John wanted to protest. The stimulation between that and the slow strokes on his cock was driving him wild.

But Sherlock was just grabbing more lube. He worked it between his hands before asking, “Ready?”

John nodded.

One hand returned to his cock and he could feel two of Sherlock’s fingers probing.

“Relax, John, I won’t hurt you.”

That wasn’t the problem. John wasn’t scared of being hurt or scared at all, really. He was just uncomfortable. It felt right to be in bed with Sherlock but it didn’t feel right to have something up his arse.

Sherlock must have read John’s struggle and he bent over and took John’s cock into his mouth.

“Jesus Christ!” John hadn’t been expecting that. Sherlock pushed his fingers in while John was trying to acclimate to the sensations from his cock. It couldn’t taste good to Sherlock; John’s lube wasn’t flavoured or intended to be ingested. While Sherlock made a bit of a face, he didn’t stop.

John bore down and the fingers slid in deeper. Sherlock started teasing John’s foreskin with his tongue and it took all of John’s willpower not to thrust. It was too good. God, why hadn’t he done this earlier?

“Sherlock.” It was the only warning John could give. He was close,  _ so close _ , and it couldn’t be over. Not yet.

Sherlock raised his head, dragging his tongue across his forearm, clearly trying to get rid of the taste. He smacked his lips and wrinkled his nose and John giggled at him.

In revenge, Sherlock curled his fingers and stroked John’s prostate.

John’s back arched and he cried out, “Oh, fuck!” He hadn’t realized how sensitive it was. And he never could have imagined how good it felt.

At that Sherlock chuckled. He started scissoring his fingers while avoiding John’s prostate and he lubed his cock.

“Condom!” John shouted. He really wanted this to happen but he had to be safe. He turned, trying to keep Sherlock’s fingers in his arse and reach into his nightstand at the same time.

With Sherlock’s careful movements John was able to grab the condom while still being penetrated, and he held out the condom with a shaking hand.

“Take it, put it on, do it, go,” he said, desperate.

“Open it for me,” Sherlock said.

“What?”

“I have lube on my hands, and my fingers are currently in your arse. You’ll throw a fit if I use my teeth because you had that one patient who got pregnant because her boyfriend used his teeth and ripped a hole in the condom and you ranted about how stupid—”

“Yeah, yes, fine.” John couldn’t care less at the moment but he ripped the wrapper open just to shut Sherlock up.

Sherlock rolled the condom on one-handed and then lubed it up.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” John said. He wanted this, he needed Sherlock inside him.

Sherlock took out his fingers and lined himself up. When John felt the tip of Sherlock’s cock he tensed up.

“Okay?” Sherlock asked.

John didn’t know how to tell him he was and at the same time he wasn’t. And, god, what if this ruined their friendship? He closed his eyes. What was he doing? Yes, he wanted this, but there were so many ways it could go wrong.

There was pressure against his lips and he opened his eyes to see Sherlock above him, having just given him a kiss.

“Sorry, lube mouth,” Sherlock said, telling John why he kept the kiss chaste.

“Don’t care,” John said, and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and pulled their mouths together. He didn’t regret the decision even though the taste of lube was strong. Sherlock had beautiful lips that John couldn’t resist nibbling on. John could tell Sherlock was a little distracted though and he realized why when he felt pressure against his arse again.

John broke the kiss just long enough to say, “Yes, do it.”

Sherlock did, he just pushed the tip of his dick in and then paused, which John was grateful for. He stopped kissing Sherlock and took some deep breaths. He tried to relax but his body was screaming. It didn’t hurt, per se, but there was a bit of a burn and he needed to adjust.

“Bear down,” Sherlock said.

John did as he was told and Sherlock slid forward. John could feel every inch as it entered his body and when Sherlock was fully seated John looked up at him in wonder.

“Okay?” Sherlock asked.

In response, John pulled Sherlock down for another kiss.

Slowly Sherlock started grinding his hips. John held him close and rocked with him.

The awkward sensation was wearing off and John was starting to enjoy the feel of Sherlock’s cock sliding inside of him. He angled his hips when Sherlock started kissing his neck. He wanted to know how it felt to have his prostate stimulated during sex.

“Ah!” he gasped when Sherlock found the target. Oh, that was good.

He held his hips at that angle and lifted his leg to spur Sherlock on.

Sherlock took the hint and started thrusting harder and harder as John shouted in ecstasy. It was wonderful. There was so much going on that he could barely keep track of everything. It was exquisite.

“God, Sherlock! You’re, ah, so, ah, fuck, amazing, shit, ah, ah, ah.”

Sherlock reached his hand between them and started working John’s cock.

It was too much. It was not enough. He was in a different plane of existence and nothing would ever be the same.

He faintly heard Sherlock groan and when he bit down on John’s shoulder it pushed him over the edge.

Both his throat and ears hurt from his scream.

When he came back to his senses he saw Sherlock tying a knot in the condom and setting it on top of his book.

“Experiment,” he explained, although he didn’t need to. John knew Sherlock; he’d be surprised if he didn’t save their fluids after sex for science.

John took a tissue and wiped his semen off his chest. He set it next to the condom.

“That was amazing. You’re amazing,” John said, smiling at his lover.

Sherlock blushed. “Yes, you too.”

It seemed like Sherlock wanted to say more but he either couldn’t find the words or he wasn’t ready to say them.

Either way, John didn’t really care. He was knackered.

It was too early to go to sleep, but a nap wouldn’t hurt anyone. Sherlock didn’t appear to be inclined to leave - he stole the pillow under John’s head and curled up on his side.

John rolled his eyes and took the messy lube pillow from under his arse, shucked the case off onto the floor, and flipped it over under his head before wrapping his arm possessively around Sherlock’s middle and falling asleep.

\---The Next Morning---

John woke uncomfortably warm. His body, especially his arse, ached. He was sweaty and sticky and he felt like he needed at least three showers.

When he moved to rub his face he heard a groan and the events of the last night came rushing back.

He’d slept with Sherlock.

And he was there in John’s bed in the morning. They were facing each other,  Sherlock’s arm thrown around John’s waist and their legs tangled.

He was cuddling.

It was adorable. John smiled softly.

“Shut up,” the cuddle bug said.

“I didn’t say anything,” John protested quietly.

“You’re thinking loudly. Go think somewhere else, I need more sleep. You wore me out.”

John laughed and kissed Sherlock on his nose before rolling out of bed. His muscles (and arse) protested but he soldiered through. After a shower and shave John walked into the kitchen to make his lover breakfast.

He’d only meant to take a nap but it was worth sleeping so long to see Sherlock in his bed in the morning.

After a quick look into the fridge, John realized that breakfast wasn’t going to happen - not for him, anyway - but the maggots seemed happy with what they were provided. They hadn’t bought a new kettle so there wasn’t going to be any tea either.

There was some cake left on the counter. Three slices of Sherlock’s cake, each on their own plate.

John grabbed two of the plates and two plastic party forks and carried them upstairs.

Sherlock was sitting up in the bed, the blanket only barely covering his lap. His hair was wild and he was blinking slowly.

“Good morning,” John said brightly.

“Urgh, would have been better if you’d slept longer,” Sherlock mumbled.

John held out a slice of cake and Sherlock took it. The prospect of sugar seemed to wake him up quickly. John would have to start a chart for breakfast foods after sex.

They each ate their cake sitting on the bed. Sherlock was leaned over, resting his head on John’s shoulder.

“You’re getting crumbs everywhere,” John complained.

“Muph.”

“I can’t understand you when you talk with your mouth full.”

Sherlock swallowed. “I know,” he said and playfully bumped John’s shoulder with his.

John chuckled.

“And it doesn’t matter if I get crumbs in here. We’re moving to my room.”

“You just get to decide this, do you?”

“Please, John. It’s common sense. Your bed is a small double while mine is a king. Plus, it’s next to the shower.” With that Sherlock picked at some flakes on his stomach. They hadn’t gotten flannels to clean up last night, so they had used only tissues.

John didn’t have any arguments. Sherlock’s logic was sound.

“This cake  _ is _ good,” John said.

“Of course, it’s the best in London,” Sherlock said, looking slightly offended.

“Too bad we can’t get more.” John was positive Sherlock had been banned.

“Yes, that is unfortunate.”

“For reference, a better apology would’ve been a new kettle.”

“Mrs Hudson gave us two for your birthday. She thinks you can hide one from me and have some sort of secret tea.” Sherlock’s nose was wrinkled as if it were a ridiculous notion.

When they were done eating, John put their paper plates and plastic forks into the bin next to the bed.

"C'mon, idiot. Come help me open my presents."

"Help?" Sherlock asked.

"If you guess them all correctly you can have the last piece of cake. And, if you get any wrong—"

He snorted derisively. "I don't  _ guess _ ."

"—you have to clean the fridge  _ and _ the loo."

"Fine. Fine." Sherlock agreed dismissively, assured of his prowess to keep him from chores. He was clearly happy to be forgiven and excited to play this new game. 

John smiled; either way, it meant he didn't have to do something he didn't want to do, and he got to watch Sherlock be brilliant.

Plus, John had an ace up his sleeve: Mycroft had sent a wrapped box with a separate note telling John to have Sherlock deduce the gifts in exchange for chores. The note stated that the idea was in no way related to the gift, therefore there was no reason to tell Sherlock about it.

John’s guess was that the box contained a toilet brush.

Sherlock hooked his finger under John’s chin and pulled him in for a chaste kiss. Then he bounded down the stairs stark naked and John chased after the menace with a sheet in case Mrs Hudson was up.

It was the best birthday John had ever had.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @GizmoTrinket221 on Twitter


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